DELHI TO DUBAI: memoir-in-progress

 

 DELHI TO DUBAI

    by Nighat Na-koja

 

…a sudden emptying of the soul in which images vanish, concepts and words are silent, and freedom and clarity suddenly open out within you until your whole being embraces the wonder, the depth, the obviousness and yet the unfathomable incomprehensibility of God. This touch, this clean breath of understanding, comes relatively rarely.                                                                             

                                                                             Thomas Merton: New Seeds of Contemplation[1]

 

Of course, it all seems quite unfathomable now. Delhi to Dubai. Dubai to Karachi. To be with Abba during the loneliest period of his life. To share a year and a half of togetherness. In retrospect, it feels like a grand, mad, design woven from invisible threads of life I couldn't see then. Nor do I see them now.

Crossing the border between India and Pakistan, once a relatively simple affair, is now a near impossibility. Direct flights, the inter-country bus from Delhi to Lahore—all suspended since the 2019 skirmishes. And with the political climate as it is, restoration of travel seems a distant dream. The only option, it seemed, was the circuitous route via Dubai.  Even that, however, required patience during the pandemic. I had to wait until the international travel ban was lifted in August 2021.

So, I flew from Delhi to Dubai, endured a ten-hour layover, and finally boarded the late-night flight to Karachi.  Ironically, it would have been faster, easier, and cheaper to simply walk across the border. But, of course, given the absurd logic of politics, the simplest solution was also the most impossible.

***

Despite the travel ban in place, I still called the Pakistan Consulate in Delhi, clinging to the faint hope that perhaps, just perhaps, I might be granted permission to cross the border, given my father's failing health.

Can I cross the border at Wagah on foot? I asked, knowing the answer even as I spoke.

There’s a Covid travel ban, the voice on the other end replied. The border is closed.

Until when?

Indefinitely. It’s up to the governments. They have to decide. You can keep checking with us every few days.

I can’t keep checking every few days, I pleaded. My mother died last year, I couldn’t even make it to her funeral. And now my father is dying.

Sorry, madam. Kya karen?

Ammi died in 2020. Now it was 2021, a year and a half after the pandemic first emerged, and travel from India to Pakistan, as from anywhere to anywhere else, remained a tortuous process. Thanks the ever-worsening relations between the two nations, travel from India to Pakistan was a pain even before  the pandemic.  But to compound matters, India had become a hotspot for the Delta variant, triggering even more travel restrictions. Salutations, Corona virus, you itsy-bitsy, feisty, barely-alive-yet-remarkably-clever thing! You manage to mutate and evolve constantly, turning the entire planet's life upside down. You have broken the economic back of nations, sent food prices, fuel costs, rent, and medical expenses soaring, crippling millions of lives all over the world.

What was I supposed to tell Abba every time he asked, his voice filled with a desolate longing, whenever I managed to speak to him: Ma, aap kab ayengi?

***

August 2021.

As soon as the travel ban lifted, I bought my Delhi-Dubai air ticket online. Fly Dubai was the only airline that allowed me to also buy the Dubai-Karachi ticket from India. Fly Dubai is the equivalent of a no-frills bus service for the bottom of the pyramid expat Gulf workforce. Thanks, Fly Dubai! At least you let me travel to be with my father, though not without giving me your share of headaches.

At the Fly Dubai check-in counter at Delhi airport, I cried. I begged. I pleaded.  Think of my 90-year-old father. He is very sick. He might die. My begging, crying, pleading had no effect.

We can’t go against the rules, Fly Dubai's check-in man pronounced.

 I couldn’t board the flight.

What rule had I violated? I was fully vaccinated. I had a negative PCR test. All my travel documents were in order. But my Covid PCR negative test result didn’t have the exact time stamped on it. That’s right! The hour and minute stamp were missing from my report.

The COVID test centres in sleepy Allahabad (sorry, Prayagraj) weren’t bothered about stamping the exact hour and minute they stuck the swab up my nostrils. The date was printed on my test result, but nowhere on it was the exact time the test was done. Therefore, I couldn’t travel. Unless I got tested again. Because, clearly, the precise minute of the swab was crucial to international travel.       

I had set the alarm for 3:30 am and booked a cab to the airport for 4:30 am. Most of the travelers on the Fly Dubai flight were young men. They looked like workers returning to their jobs in the UAE. There were hardly any women or children on that flight. After a long wait at the check-in counter, I showed them the printout of my negative PCR test result. They asked for the QR code. I showed them that.  

Give us the OTP. 

I gave them the OTP.

 But they couldn’t locate the exact time of my PCR test in the database. 

Why do you need the exact hour and minute of the test? I asked, baffled.

The report must have the precise time because we need to verify it was done within 72 hours of departure," they explained. "Without the time, we can't confirm this. Your result is showing only the date, not the time. It’s invalid.

I stared at the paper in my hand. Moments before, it had seemed so vital. Now, it was just a useless scrap. My vaccination certificate, my negative PCR result—all worthless?

My test was at 11 am in Allahabad. I was at the check-in counter at 5 am two days later. Clearly within the 72-hour window. They messaged Fly Dubai HQ in Dubai, who, predictably, confirmed they couldn't let me board without proof the test was within the 72-hour period.

I don't believe this! I have to be on this flight.

The tears started then. My first instinct was to call someone, anyone, who could reason with these people. But I knew no one. Suddenly, images of peaceful mornings in Allahabad flooded my mind: Heidu napping on her cushion, my coffee, birdsong, the pomegranate tree rustling in the breeze. I yearned for that serenity, that simple safety. I was angry. I hated standing there, at the Fly Dubai counter, unable to prove my innocence for a crime I hadn't committed—the agony of innocence, unprovable.

 

***

After a good cry, I thought: what the hell am I going to do now?

The young man ahead of me in line, who'd heard my sniffling, turned out to be a godsend. An accountant from Dubai visiting family, he was on the same flight—and also denied boarding. His rapid antigen test, not the required PCR, was the culprit.

Kunal, unlike me, wasn't fazed. Confident and resourceful, he simply booked an Emirates flight a few hours later, using the time to get a PCR test. He even guided me out of the airport; my brain was mush, I couldn't even find the exit. Kunal also pointed me to a testing center across the street.

The Fly Dubai staff had vanished from the check-in counters after their flight departed. I explored the possibility of taking Kunal's Emirates flight to Dubai, then catching the Fly Dubai flight to Karachi that night. He even gave me his Dubai number in case I ran into trouble. Where do such angels come from?

Since I couldn't board in Delhi, my entire Fly Dubai ticket was voided. Their Delhi office didn't answer calls, and my email to their regional customer service contact yielded a response around noon: nothing much he could do, no refund. My unused ticket was useless; I'd have to buy a new one. My fault, apparently, for having an invalid test. Wow.

Emotionally drained, I desperately needed caffeine. A tea kiosk beckoned. 

Hot choc, 99 rupees, a poster proclaimed.

That'll be 114, the vendor corrected me.

So why does it say 99 on the poster? I asked.

Tax add hota hai, madam, he explained.

Could you make the hot chocolate with very little milk? I requested.

Can't change the hot chocolate, comes from this dispenser, he replied, pointing to the machine behind him.

Ok. Then I’ll take an espresso, I said.

Espresso? Na doodh, na pani? Madam, aap chai le lijye. Wo theek rahega, he advised.

Okay, chai then.

He seemed good-natured enough, naive, and helpful—definitely not from Delhi, I concluded. I asked how long he'd been there. My hunch was right; he'd moved from Bengal just months before. Bengal chor kar Delhi kya karne aaye tum, bhaiya? Wo bhi Corona time mein?

Majburi ka naam Mahatma Gandhi, madam, he replied matter-of-factly, handing me a very anemic Styrofoam cup of milky tea. I fished out a Nescafe sachet (always travel well-prepared) and sprinkled it in for a caffeine boost.

Looking at the young student, I could envision how Delhi's dehumanizing grip would take its toll. A year from now, if he was still in the city, he wouldn't be so polite and helpful.

***

The Delhi airport's COVID testing center was a makeshift lab in a hall across from Terminal 3. I paid 500 Indian rupees for a rapid PCR test. Long lines of passengers snaked through the hall. I wasn't the only one lacking the exact kind of test result the airlines demanded. What a lucrative business! Any business born of human suffering is bound to be. Had I known! If only I'd known, I could've been tested yesterday upon arriving from Allahabad. The result, with the precise time, would have been online last night, and I'd have boarded this morning.  That magic number, 7:25 am, was printed on my new report.  Its absence had cost me dearly. At 7:25 am, the lab technician swabbed my nostrils.

Your result will be online in 6-8 hours, she said.

It was online in less than four when I checked from the hotel lobby. Negative. Thank God!

The cab driver who took me back to the hotel shared his story, a familiar tale of hardship and woe caused by Covid lockdowns.  It wasn't so much the virus itself, but the lack of income during COVID that had devastated so many like him.

Ek aur lockdown ho gaya madam, toh sab kuch khatam ho jaega, the driver said.  Another lockdown, and everything would be finished. He'd taken his family to his village in Bihar when the last one was imposed. He was one of the lucky ones; he had a village to return to. There was no work in the city. I asked if he was vaccinated. He wasn't, but he was planning to get it. Planning to!  The company claimed all its drivers were vaccinated.

I asked about the free rations the government had provided during lockdown months.

5 kilo chawal aur 5 kilo atta se kya hota hai, madam? he replied. What's the point of five kilos of rice and five kilos of flour? Daal chahiye, sabji, doodh, cheeni…sab chahiye. We need lentils, vegetables, milk, sugar…everything. Khud toh bhooka so jaey admi, magar bachon ko kaise bhuka sula sakte hain? A man can go to sleep hungry himself, but how can he let his children go hungry?

I could complain to customer service about their unvaccinated driver, but I felt bad for him. He said he had a vaccination appointment the day after tomorrow. Who knows if he was telling the truth? He rented the cab and drove twelve hours a day. After petrol, rental, tolls, he only saved 600 rupees. I didn't believe him. How could he support a wife and two kids on 600 rupees a day in Delhi? Who knows if he was telling the truth.

Who would you vote for in the next elections? 

He said defensively, Modi ji ko hi vote denge. Modi ji ka koi dosh nahi. He didn’t want to come across as if finding fault with the Modi sarkar, but he seemed unsure. Who else could he vote for, if not Modi? Lack of choice seemed to be the reason he would opt for Modi.

Aap kis ko vote dengi madam?

Jo junta ke liye kaam karta hai, usi ko vote dena chahiye, I said.

Back at the hotel, they gave me the same room. I was glad for that touch of familiarity in an indifferent city. The cool, clean space, fresh white sheets, and sparkling bathroom—I accepted it all unashamedly. The little tubes of shampoo and body wash sitting smugly in their tray, the Darjeeling tea and coffee sachets near the TV, the impossibly long and huggable body pillow—they made the unpleasantness of the dunya outside recede.

I indulged in the hotel's buffet lunch, a special offer with a 30% discount.  Afterwards, I tried to read more of the Merton book. I couldn’t. The room was so perfectly air-conditioned against Delhi's sweltering humidity, and I was well-fed and exhausted. My body just sank and sank into the mattress. When I woke, several hours later, it was dark.

A text message on my phone: Fly Dubai's next morning flight was cancelled!

What? Why?

They cancelled the flight I'd just booked this morning? Again?  Think! Think! Think fast. But my brain was mush. I made tea, re-reading the cancellation message repeatedly, as if that would somehow change it. What to do? Take the flight the day after tomorrow? What if that one was cancelled too? My mind was a fog; I couldn't decide anything. I finished my tea and sank into the sofa.

 Time to meditate, my inner voice suggested.

 I straightened my back, sat cross-legged on the sofa, and  meditated. The restlessness began to subside. It was all superficial; deep down, thankfully, there was tranquility. I didn't understand why I felt so calm and reassured amid so much uncertainty. There was very little reason to feel  calm. After I finished, I turned on the TV. The news channels were, as usual, extolling the nation's record-breaking progress under Modi. Villages had electricity and toilets, and the Clean India campaign was a resounding success, they claimed.  I'd just arrived from a town where garbage piled up every few meters. And in a nearby village, many homes had neither electricity nor toilets. People still defecated in the fields.

 Then, the news shifted to the turmoil in Afghanistan. The Taliban were back, having taken Kabul. I flipped between Russia Today, Al Jazeera, and the BBC. American forces were departing—a hasty exit, yet the US claimed they hadn't lost the 20-year war!  Hundreds of desperate Afghans running alongside a departing US Air Force plane—that clip looped on all three channels. The Afghan president had fled to neighboring Tajikistan. All regular flights out of Kabul were cancelled. Could this be why my Delhi-Dubai flight was cancelled?  Kabul? Delhi? Dubai?  Where's the connection?   Need there be one?

Much later that night, I got a call from Fly Dubai. The Delhi-Dubai flight would leave as scheduled the 

next morning.

What’s going on, dear God!

I should reach the airport by 4 am, the voice said, and hung up.

It took several minutes for this momentous news to sink in. Then I set my alarm for 3 am, booked a cab 

for 3:30, did some deep breathing to calm my once-again anxious mind (and unsuccessfully tried to sleep).

 

                                                                                    ***

 

It’s a little past 5 am on August 17th, 2021. I’ve made it through immigration and security at Delhi airport. The 

morning after the Taliban's return to Kabul. I'm relieved—relieved my flight is leaving. What do I care about the Taliban? I'm also in disbelief. Will I actually board this flight today? I just checked in, so it must be leaving, right? After so much going wrong, it seemed impossible anything could go right.

Today, unlike yesterday, the airport is empty. I don't know if this too is related to the situation in Afghanistan. From my limited, self-preservation perspective, I'm glad. Sparse traffic means a higher chance of stretching out across three seats on the flight and sleeping.

The same check-in fellow from yesterday greets me. He recognizes me. I tell him about the cancellation 

message, then the subsequent call saying the flight was back on.

He says the initial cancellation was due to the situation in Afghanistan.

What does a Delhi-Dubai flight have to do with the situation in Afghanistan? I ask.

He didn't know. Why did I expect him to?

He, like me, was thinking from his own limited perspective on life. I was happy because the flight was going. He was unhappy because the flight was going. 

Hum toh ghar chale gaye thay, madam, kyunki flight cancel ho gayee thi. Then they called us back so early! He'd gone home because of the cancellation, only to be called back to work at the crack of dawn.

I proudly show him the exact time stamp on my new COVID test.

Yes, now it's okay, he says.

It's more than okay, I want to shout, waving the report in his face. But I remain a stoic. I don't thank him or even smile when he returns my report and boarding pass.

***

On the way to the departure lounge, I stopped at one of the Duty Free perfume shops and sprayed testers on my wrists. Two watchful salespersons materialized instantly, either suspecting me of theft or eager to sell me a supposedly heavily discounted Chanel or Lancôme. I let them spritz my left and right wrists, and dabbed my wrists on my neck, then pocketed tester cards for a few more fragrances, saying I couldn't decide between the Chanel and Lancôme and needed more time.

I walked to the gate, smelling like a spring garden from the medley of free fragrances on my skin, sleep-deprived, tired, and still dazed from yesterday's events, still wearing yesterday's clothes.

But how could I complain or explain? All I could think was that I was finally going to fly. When this long journey ended, I expected to collapse and sleep peacefully in my father's house. My tranquil feeling during meditation the night before still buoyed me. I didn't understand it then, only later.  When Fly Dubai called about the next morning's flight, did intuitive feeling finally made sense. Intuition, as always, preceded rational understanding. It seemed I was being tossed around, then steadied, jolted in and out of anxiety. I was on a journey with little control over its course or outcome, despite my fretting and efforts. In retrospect, I shouldn't have fretted at all. I should've just sat back and embarked on the safar, trusting I was being taken where I needed to go. Merton was right:

…you only have a vague, unutterable sense that peace underlies the darkness and aridity in which you find yourself. You scarcely dare admit it to yourself, but in spite of all your misgivings you realize that you are going somewhere and that your journey is guided and directed and that you can feel safe…..you are in the presence of a more personal Love, Who invades your mind and will in a way you cannot grasp, eluding every attempt on your part to contain and hold Him by any movement of your own soul. You know that this “Presence” is God….hidden in a cloud, although He is so near as to be inside you and outside you and all around you.[2]

Who was with me through all the ups and downs? Whose presence was veiled from my conscious perception? When the Fly Dubai staff refused to let me board, when they texted about the cancellation, and when they called again to say the flight was on—who was there? Who was present in those tranquil moments during meditation, even when there was no external reassurance, until I finally arrived in Karachi, reached home, and saw Abba?

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[1] Thomas Merton: New Seeds of Contemplation. New Directions Publishing Corporation, New York. 2007

For a soulful reading of the chapter from which this quote was taken, listen to Samaneri Jayasara on Youtube: https://www.google.com/search?client=firefox-b-d&q=merton+meditations+on+love+samaneri+jayasara#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:7f477969,vid:toHz72mR1Vc,st:0

[2] Thomas Merton: New Seeds of Contemplation. New Directions Publishing Corporation, New York. 2007

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